Page 34 of Push My Buttons

“Silence, you good?” HexedOut’s voice jolts me from my spiral. “You’re quieter than usual, which is impressive.”

Fine,I type back quickly.Just tired.

“Or traumatized by WrathSpawn’s personality,” HexedOut quips.

“Better mine than yours,” WrathSpawn replies evenly, but I can hear the tension behind his words. Does he sense something off?

I try to shake off my unease. The missions roll on, the familiar rhythm of gameplay easing my breathing. The glitch doesn’t reappear. WrathSpawn—Jace—does nothing suspicious. Just leads, supports, covers our backs as he always has.

Eventually, my paranoia begins to fade. They’re the same as always: reliable, steady, safe. I let their familiar banter wash over me, soothing frayed nerves.

“Last one?” HexedOut asks after another victory.

I type:One more.

If WrathSpawn is Jace, then who is HexedOut?

I start analyzing HexedOut's voice, his mannerisms, the way he jokes and teases. The constant flirtation. The easy confidence. The relentless charm that never quite crosses the line.

Oh my god. It's Theo.

It has to be. The sarcastic humor. The borderline inappropriate comments. The way he always pushes just enough to get a reaction but backs off before it becomes truly annoying.

I've spent months gaming with both of them, and never once realized they were the same guys who order coffee from me almost every day. How is that even possible? Have I really been that oblivious?

Wait—do they know each other outside the game? I've never seen them acknowledge each other at the café. They never come in together. Never speak to each other. They're like ships passing in the night, one leaving as the other arrives.

But then again, maybe I haven't been paying enough attention. Maybe they're better at compartmentalizing than I am. Maybe they're work colleagues who keep their gaming lives separate from their real lives.

This final mission passes without incident. The glitch becomes a distant memory, the message just pixels and paranoia. I exhale slowly, tension gradually leaving my shoulders. Safe, I remind myself. These men aren’t the threat. These digital shadows have never hurt me.

“Good game,” WrathSpawn says, a soft edge to his tone I now associate strongly with Jace’s tentative smiles at Grounded.

“Glad to have you back, Silence,” HexedOut adds.

I type:Same.

We log out. The screen goes dark, headset silent.

I’m alone again, my hotel room suddenly colder, emptier. I lean back, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes. As much as I want to forget it, nothing feels as safe as it once did. Not the game, not my home, not even my own skin.

But tonight, at least, I know one thing: Jace isn’t my stalker. He can’t be. Because stalkers don’t look at you the way he looked at me. Stalkers don’t ground you through panic attacks.

Stalkers don’t make you feel safe, even if only for a moment.

Right?

My heartbeat finally settles, slow and steady.

For now, that’ll have to be enough.

I stretch, working out the kinks in my shoulders from hunching over the laptop for hours.

The game was a good distraction, but reality comes flooding back as soon as I close the laptop. In less than 72 hours, I'll be stepping into a fantasy version of Wasteland Chronicles with two strangers who only know me as Vanta. I'll be wearing a mask and a wig, playing a role, creating an illusion.

Just like I do every day as Wren. Just like I do every night as Silence.

But now I'm not so sure the shoot was the right call. Inviting two strangers into a carefully constructed fantasy—one where I have little control—suddenly feels reckless. Especially when I’m starting to form real connections here, in my real life, for the first time in forever.